


The Five Moments it Took for Tony and Scott to Admit They Were Best Friends (and the first time they ever did)

by Cross_d_a



Category: Ant-Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Cassie is the Actual Best, Don't copy to another site, EVERYONE IS ALIVE AND HAPPY, Fluff, Gen, Post-Avengers: Endgame Part 2 (Movie), Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Scott Lang is a Good Bro, Tony Stark Has A Heart, except for that first chapter, that's after Infinity War and everything Hurts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 00:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17776829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cross_d_a/pseuds/Cross_d_a
Summary: No one is more surprised than Tony Stark when he realizes that Scott Lang is his best friend.





	The Five Moments it Took for Tony and Scott to Admit They Were Best Friends (and the first time they ever did)

**Author's Note:**

> Got hit with this sudden craving for Tony & Scott adorableness. I think they'd get along really well.
> 
> Also, I feel _robbed_ because I just learned that originally Scott was going to be on Tony's side in Civil War. So pls just let me have this.

**1\. buttered toast**

It’s three-thirty in the morning and Tony can’t sleep. Dust coats his tongue as a moon shatters his bones and Peter is crying _Sir please sir_ and Tony just _can’t. Sleep._

He finds himself in the kitchen. It’s far too large and empty but Tony can’t handle being around anyone right now. The tile is cold against his bare toes but it’s better than the chill of space or the slide of metal between his aching ribs. He stands at the threshold and stares into the dark. The dim lights of the outside perimeter echo along the edges of the windows, turning everything into an ominous tableau of shadows and looming shapes. It’s quiet. So quiet. Only the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the Compound’s own systems convince Tony that he isn’t out in space again. Floating. Alone. Just waiting for the oxygen to run out so he can go hazy around the edges and wilt away until he’s just as cold and lifeless as everything around him.

His feet slide against the tile. His arches ache, his heels so calloused they’re almost numb. From sheer memory alone his gaze flickers over to where the coffeemaker is.

Instead he sits at the island, barstool hard and unforgiving. He wonders what he was thinking when he bought them. No one would want to sit in them. He’s never seen anyone sit in them. Even before all…this. Before the Accords.

Before Thanos.

He’s not quite sure why he’s here and not in his workshop. At least down there he has DUM-E and U and Butterfingers. But he thinks if he goes down there he’ll just be reminded of what he’s lost. It feels like a fluke that he didn’t lose his bots. They live like everyone else. They _feel_ like everyone else. And yet Thanos didn’t give them the decency of acknowledging their sentient existence.

Then again, who knows. Maybe he did and they just got lucky.

If Tony goes down there, he’ll just be reminded of how long he left them alone and scared and in the dark.

If Tony goes down there, he’ll remember everyone else who didn’t get so fucking lucky.

Burning ash flickers along his tongue and his knuckles go white. His hands grip each other so tight the skin might split and he presses his knuckles to the space between his brows as he bows his head.

_Sir please sir._

It’s a few seconds before he remembers how to breathe. When he does it’s a shaky exhale that leaves him empty and utterly bereft.

It’s been so long.

Yet he can’t forget.

There’s a step behind him, the quiet brush of cloth on skin. He jerks around, jaw tight and awful as he searches the gloom.

“Uh.” Lang peers at him from the doorway, awkward and slanted against the doorframe. His fingers grip the doorjamb like they don’t quite know what else to do or where else to go. “Hey.”

The man’s gaze flickers around the shadowed room. “Sorry,” he says, voice harsh and far too loud for this lonely night. “Sorry,” he repeats again, voice cracking in a murmur. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Even from here, Tony can tell the shadows are deeper around the man’s eyes. Bruised. Sunken. They sink into his skin and slice across his face unforgivingly. Pulling at the creases in his mouth, the corners of his eyes.

Tony doubts anyone in the Compound can actually sleep.

Lang stares at him for a second, hovering on the edge of indecision. Solitude or fellowship. Slumber or insomnia. Nightmares or crushing remorse.

He steps through the doorway.

To Tony’s surprise the man doesn’t say anything. His slippered feet take him to the fridge. When he opens it to contemplate the contents, the slant of light cuts across his cheek, gleaming like a knife edge. Tony can’t help but squint in the brightness, watching the man’s oddly blank face. After a few moments Lang grabs some bread and a carton of milk. The fridge shuts and Tony is left blinking stars out of his eyes.

There’s shuffling, then the _clack_ of a cupboard as it closes.

Slowly, Tony’s blurred eyes refocus. Scott’s at the other end of the kitchen, broad back covering up whatever he’s doing. Tony watches as the man works methodically. The dim light filtering in through the windows highlights the definition in the man’s shoulders. The slope of his spine. His threadbare shirt does little more than protect him from the initial chill of the air.

The man then slides over to the oven.

Tony’s gaze drops and he sighs. If the man really wants a midnight snack Tony won’t stop him, but he also doesn’t want the company.

He can’t find it in himself to move.

So he stares at his hands. The callouses that line them. The faint raise of scars. The damaged quicks of his nails.

Slowly, a warmth fills the room. At first, he doesn’t realize it’s not actually a temperature difference. Instead, it’s a steady aroma that fills his nose. Comforting and sweet. It settles in his lungs like a fresh breath of air. It’s heady on his tongue, tickles the back of his throat.

It’s familiar.

He raises his head to see Lang bent over at the waist, the heat of the oven illuminating the messy wisps of his hair. He pulls something out of the oven and sets it on the counter with a clatter. He then heads over to the microwave just as it dings. Tony didn’t even notice that it was on.

Lang left the oven open. Its warm light radiates soft along the kitchen like the tail end of a sunset, pastels faded across the sky as the sun disappears below the horizon.

A clatter echoes on the other side of the kitchen. Metal on porcelain. Tony flinches.

Lang turns on his heel and, to Tony’s utter bewilderment, sets two mugs on the counter. He pushes one towards Tony, liquid nearly slopping over the rim. Tony stares down at it, speechless. It’s one of those nondescript mugs Tony specifically chose for the compound. Plain and boring just a hair too small. Sweet steam fans his cheeks, so warm it makes the tips of his ears and toes feel freezing. But maybe they already were and Tony just didn’t notice. There’s so much going on in his head that sometimes it’s difficult to notice a lot of things.

Tony’s just curling his hands around the mug when a plate slides into his vision. On it is a perfectly toasted slice of rye bread.

Tony looks up at Lang who’s already taking a sip of his drink.

“I make it for Cassie when she can’t sleep,” Lang murmurs. “Like my mom used to do for me.” He picks up his toast but doesn’t bite into it quite yet. His gaze is far away. “Butter toasted to perfection on a slice of rye. Milk heated until it froths. Add a dash of cinnamon and vanilla. A generous dollop of honey. Then stir.” He opens his mouth wide and chomps into the bread. The crunch is satisfying even to Tony’s ears.

Involuntarily, Tony lifts the mug to his lips. It’s sweet on his tongue and just this edge of too warm. But when he swallows, the heat travels all the way down to his toes. It settles content in his belly.

“Can’t say no to healthy comfort food.”

Tony raises his brow. “If you can call this healthy,” he says, voice hoarse. Nevertheless, he bites into his bread. It really is perfectly toasted. The butter has sunk in and crisped up so it practically melts on his tongue. He can’t help but take another bite.

“I could always make you ants on a log, if you prefer.”

“No thanks, Lang,” Tony rasps, startled into laughter. The burst of sound is foreign to his ears. Rough and far too sharp in his throat. It shakes his shoulders. They nearly don’t stop shaking.

“Scott.”

Tony looks up from his toast.

Lang very carefully does not look at him. Instead he’s delicately biting all the crust off his slice of bread. It rotates slowly. _Crunch. Crunch. Crunch._ Until there’s just a bite-size left and a lumpy square of toasted center. He grips the leftover crust and starts in at the rest of his toast. “You can call me Scott,” he says through a mouthful of rye.

Tony’s gaze drops so he can eye his own toast. It’s got sensible chunks bitten out of it. He always starts from the bottom. Ana always made the best bread. The tops were the crunchiest, crumbs getting stuck in his teeth. Jarvis would laugh and tell him to floss when he was done. Tony would grin at him, all teeth, then chomp down on another slice to savour the warmth of Anna’s fresh-baked masterpiece.

“Tony, then.”

Scott’s smile is bright over the rim of his mug.

They finish their milk and toast in silence, but it’s comfortable. Soothing. Tony is not daunted by the companionship as he so often is nowadays.

Afterwards, Tony manages to slip back into his cold bed, belly full and warm.

He even falls asleep for a few hours.

When he wakes it’s to the sun’s light flushing across the room. Pastel warms the walls and his toes where they stick out from beneath the comforter. Tony blinks blearily into the sun and remembers the slant of refrigerator light across cold tile. The glow of an open oven. Sweetness on his breath and the crunch of perfectly toasted bread between his teeth.

He runs his tongue along his gums and discovers the sharp pricks of a few stray crumbs.

Ana’s laughter echoes in his ears. Jarvis’ smile curves along the inside of every lazy blink.

Tony closes his eyes against the glare of the sun, tucks his head beneath the covers and falls back asleep.


End file.
